


world in my eyes

by SimulationTheory



Series: A Question of Time [3]
Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: 2019, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon Compliant, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, Infidelity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-07-19 18:47:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19978783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SimulationTheory/pseuds/SimulationTheory
Summary: “Hey, you made it” Roger’s voice is welcoming balm as he gestures for Rafa to enter. He looks every inch the rumpled father here, barefoot in sweatpants and a t-shirt declaring “Just Chillin’” in rainbow bright letters. It’s a side that Rafa has rarely seen and it kindles something new in him. He finds himself wondering what it would be like to live with this man, to be greeted at the end of a long day with such effortless casual joy.Indian Wells 2019





	world in my eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Direct sequel to 'A Question of Lust' but works as a stand-alone piece so I'm posting separately rather than as a new chapter.
> 
> Title and lyrics courtesy of Depeche Mode, which is getting to be quite the habit.
> 
> As canon-compliant as you want to believe, the rest is pure falsehood. And it's only going to get worse from here on out, before it gets better.

_Let me take you on a trip_  
_Around the world and back_  
_And you won't have to move_  
_You just sit still_  
_Now let your mind do the walking_  
_And let my body do the talking_  
_Let me show you the world in my eyes_

**Coachella Valley, 7th March 2019**

The large dining table in the kitchen serves as the focal point and meeting place for the whole villa, so when Rafa is last down for breakfast, he doesn’t immediately register anything amiss with the team gathering. He flaps a sleepy wave in greeting and heads to the drinks lined up on the counter.

“What’s the programme looking like for today, Charly?” he has his back to them as he sets down the jug of orange juice. “Any changes from last night? Feels like it will be hot again.”

He turns, to find them all watching him. “What?”

Charly gestures at him to sit down, and holds up his phone. Rafa gives it a cursory glance as he pulls up a chair but can’t see anything other than text and colours.

“They’ve published the full practice schedule. The tournament has. On the app”

Rafa shrugs as he reaches for the plate of mini croissants. “That’s normal, for here.”

“Yes…” There’s something in Charly’s tone that he can’t quite pinpoint. “They’ve put you on court 2 today”

“Okay” Rafa’s eyes sweep over the detritus on the table and alight on the chocolate spread. “so it’s a bit more public, all the top players have to take their turn on there”. He unscrews the jar and dips his knife in.

“It’s just…” Charly clears his throat. Rafa looks up again, knife and croissant paused in mid air. He quirks an eyebrow at him. “Federer is on court 1. At the same time”

For a moment the only sound in the room is the faint hum of the air conditioning, before Rafa stirs, smoothing the chocolate spread onto the croissant with studied deliberation. He takes a bite and chews, noting with a curious detachment how Charly has referred to him as ‘Federer’. They’re not exactly close, but Roger has been on first name terms with his team for a long time.

“So?” He finally offers. He wants them to spell out exactly what their issue is. A second mini croissant quickly follows the way of the first. “These are good. Well done to whoever did the bakery run this morning”

Charly isn’t going to be deflected so easily. “Rafa, these practices are vital, we need to get back on track after Acapulco” he sees Rafa about to interrupt and raises a hand. “Hear me out. It’s going to be enough of a circus on those courts, they’re even streaming the practices online now. We could do without the...extra distraction”

Rafa’s face darkens. “What, you think we should ask to change? Or go somewhere else?” His thoughts are gathering speed now as is his agitation. “And what the hell would we say to Larry? You think I can’t play if Federer is there?” He says the name as if it’s slightly abhorrent to him, like it’s someone he doesn’t really know. “Charly, we’ve discussed this…”

“No” Charly’s tone is one of strident irritation. “No, we really haven’t. Not when it comes to what we’re supposed to do when you two meet up in public”

Rafa slowly turns and regards him as if he just grew an extra head. “What you’re supposed to do?” he slams the knife down on his plate, looks slowly around at the silent faces at the table. “What you’re supposed to do...is what you always do. What my _team_ does. You will act the same way as you would if it was Novak on the next court. Or Kei. Or Dominic. Because it doesn’t matter who it is. Except to you”

“Rafa, that’s not fair” Titin toys with the handle of his coffee cup. “It matters to all of us if it affects your game, you know it does.”

“You think it affects my game?” Rafa leans back and sips at his juice. Faces each of their now ashen faces in turn. It’s Charly who breaks the deadlock.

“The reason you told us about Federer...”

“Roger” Rafa interrupts tartly. “His name is Roger”

Charly nods minutely. “The reason you told us about...about Roger, is because it was affecting your game. And we could all see that. And we’re here to do the best job we can and we have to know what we’re working with. Or against”

A scrape of a chair and Rafa is on his feet. “I need to go and warm up”. He places the empty juice glass back on the side, and pauses at the doorway. Shoulders slumped as if he realises he owes them more than this.

“We do our best to keep it separate from the tennis. You understand why. But please also understand that this is important to me and I just ask” he turns “I just ask that you support me in this. I will do my best to follow your advice. Call me when it’s time to leave.”

He heads briskly towards the home gym that faces onto the gardens, leaving the rest of them looking at the doorway. Eventually Titin sighs and flicks the TV on, and the banal chatter of breakfast TV fills the silence.

\---

It’s later than they would have liked when they pull up in the parking area, and the checking of accreditation, x-raying of bags and general red tape puts them all on edge. Court 2 is a relatively short walk from the players entrance, but across an open field. Some of the fans stationed in the top row of the seating area have already spotted them before they reach the gate to the courts, so any hope of arriving unannounced is abandoned as they holler in greeting. 

The quickest way onto court 2 happens to be directly across Court 1, so etiquette dictates that they wait until a burly security guard beckons them forward. They don’t have to wait long, and Rafa huffs out a breath, squares his shoulders and strides confidently through the archway, the rest of his team trailing like ducks in his wake.

Roger stands as he approaches, and as their eyes meet it takes everything Rafa has to keep his expression neutral. He can’t quite help holding out his hand in greeting several steps before Roger can take it, and he finds he has to look away as they finally touch. Roger’s smile is radiant as his palm burns deep.

“Good to see you” Roger murmurs softly, patting Rafa’s chest. Rafa reciprocates with a light tap to his hip before moving on to Ivan and Seve, who are hovering a discreet distance away. One glance at their faces and he sees that they’re as on edge about the whole situation as his own team. He files that information away and dumps his bag on the white plastic bench courtside. His senses are assailed by the murmur of further greetings from Roger behind him, the excited buzz of the crowd, the whirr of camera shutters, and he knows he needs to shut it all out and work. So he does. Dialling up the intensity on his groundstrokes until his grunts of effort echo against the grandstands. 

He knows Roger can hear him, and is glad of it. 

\---

The following morning feels a little like Groundhog Day. The team fall silent as he enters the room, and he waits until he is seated, juice in hand, before addressing them.

“Well good morning to you too” he quirks a smile, sees that today’s pastry is pain au chocolat and sets about them with gusto.

Charly is regarding him with an expression that doesn’t bode well. Rafa sees that he wants to say something and makes a grunt of assent, mouth too full to form actual words.

“Court 1 this time” Charly remarks mildly, scrolling up and down his phone to avoid eye contact, even though he has read everything on the page several times over. “Apparently your practice was more popular than some of the scheduled matches. They had to turn people away from the viewing areas.”

Rafa smiles. “The practices are nothing special. Maybe they come to see you, Charly. A lot of the crowd is old enough to remember when you played”. Charly is still not meeting his eyes. “That was a joke, by the way”

There’s a sigh as Charly places his phone alongside his plate and reaches for the coffee pot. “He’s on Court 2, although I think you already know that.”

Rafa shakes his head. “I didn’t. But yesterday was fine, wasn’t it? And you just said yourself, the crowds come, that’s what the tournament wants”

“Is it what you want?” The question is unexpected and Rafa studies his half full glass before he answers.

“What I want has nothing to do with this. But if you’re asking whether I have anything to do with the court scheduling, then no. It would be easier for me if we were not at the same time, maybe” He shrugs. “Anyway, we have a lot to work on, let's focus on that”

Everyone murmurs their agreement and when the tournament vehicle comes to collect them, this time they’re ready and waiting. 

\---

He sits in his room and reads the text again. The team have called him down to dinner - they’ve set up a barbeque on the patio and the aromas and convivial chatter drift up to him - but he can’t get his legs to move quite yet.

Practice had set all of his senses on edge. They had arrived first so were well underway when Roger’s team arrived, and the greetings had followed a similar pattern. More cameras had gathered, even the ATP were filming soundbites from the baseline of the two of them side by side. Roger’s training with Medvedev which amuses Rafa, how he seems to pick players who have troubled him in competition in the past. They always assent, flattered to have been asked, and don’t seem to realise that it’s Roger’s way of finding them out. They rarely beat him again.

They’d hadn’t spoken, after their initial handshake, but when he sits between reps to adjust his grip and gather his thoughts, he hears the low rumble of conversation behind him. They’re back to back, only feet apart. Both sweating and as Roger gestures at his team, like a king holding court, Rafa catches the faintest essence of a taste he wants more than almost anything. He leaps to his feet and back onto the court, and this time the forehands are even more fierce as he tries to block out any other thoughts. He needs the comforting pain of exhaustion.

He looks once more at the text. It’s innocuous enough, a simple invitation for a cup of coffee the following afternoon. Had it been from the Armada, or almost any other player, he’d have accepted without a thought. He likes the relaxed social aspects of tour when he’s in the right mood for them, and it wouldn’t interfere with the round of golf he had planned.

He sighs, presses ‘send’ and places the handset back in the bedside drawer. Takes the stairs down to the hallway slowly, as he clears his head. He’ll tell his team after dinner. They won’t be happy.

\---

The tournament car arrives promptly and he sits behind tinted windows and contemplates the arid landscape as they make the short drive. He’s promised Charly he’ll see him on the golf course in two hours.

“It’s just coffee and a chat with a friend” he had offered as the car pulled into the drive. It sounded lame to even his own ears, but he felt he had to defend himself somehow. Charly had merely snorted in response and looked away as he held the car door open for him, radiating disapproval from every pore. 

Roger and his family are staying on a compound not far away, and the house can’t even be seen from the road. As the car glides through iron gates and up the driveway Rafa takes in the guest cottages, manicured lawns with childrens toys dotted around, and to one side he can see a stable and paddock. It’s exactly what he’d expect from Roger and he suppresses a faint smirk as he waves the driver away and approaches the door. 

“Hey, you made it” Roger’s voice is welcoming balm as he gestures for Rafa to enter. He looks every inch the rumpled father here, barefoot in sweatpants and a t-shirt declaring “Just Chillin’” in rainbow bright letters. It’s a side that Rafa has rarely seen and it kindles something new in him. He finds himself wondering what it would be like to live with this man, to be greeted at the end of a long day with such effortless casual joy. It’s a thought he quickly needs to push away because it’s like grasping a nettle - futile, and stupid as you know it can do nothing but sting you.

“It’s not normally this quiet” Roger has closed the door behind them and leads him past a grand staircase to a large sunlit kitchen. “Mirka and the girls are shopping, and the boys have gone out with Oma to see if they can find dinosaur bones, or something” he chuckles. “They’ll be back in an hour or so”. There’s a couple of couches in one corner of the kitchen, and Roger gestures for Rafa to sit. “I meant it about coffee. Or would you prefer coke?” 

Rafa accepts the chilled soda and watches as Roger fiddles with the coffee machine, an oversized silver contraption that seemed to make an inordinate amount of noise for the very small beverage that Roger subsequently sits down with. Roger sees his expression and raises the cup in a toast, and they both sip their drinks and silently regard one another.

\---

He’d made it through the round of golf with the team, the ritual and concentration of it something he’s glad he can lose himself in. He’d fielded their questions at dinner, confirmed that the visit had been fine, and warded off further enquiries with the closed off expression that they’ve long since learned to recognise and respect. It’s one of his many self-defence mechanisms, and here he employs it as a shield to keep everything in check until he’s bid them all goodnight. There, he lies on the cool laundered sheets, pale light from the en-suite keeping full darkness at bay, and sighs. Closes his eyes and he’s back on the couch in Roger’s kitchen.

They’d talked. Briefly swapped news about their families, before mulling over recent events in the wider tennis administration. Both treading cautiously, mindful of how tour politics had blown up in their faces in the past. Wary of causing damage that they might not be able to repair this time. They seem to be in agreement on key topics, acknowledging that the press would ask, and it would be better to have a considered, united answer. “After all,” Roger had pointed out with a mischievous grin, “I am sure the head of the Player Council will get around to calling us eventually”

He’d giggled in response. “You, yes. If he call me then maybe I forget how to speak English, very sad”. They’d smiled so happily at one another then, co-conspirators. Rafa had felt a bone deep contentment that had warmed him.

“Does he even have your number?” there’s a genuine curiosity in Roger’s tone, and Rafa senses an undercurrent of possessiveness. He shakes his head. “I don’t think so. He can call Benito if he needs to talk with me”

Roger opens his mouth to respond and, as if on cue, the house phone on the kitchen counter trills into life. Roger rises to answer it and the conversation is a brief flurry of Swiss German. When he hangs up and meets Rafa’s eyes, his smile is slightly bitter. “The ladies are on their way back. They’ll be here soon”

Rafa stands, smooths down his shorts. “Okay, I call the car to come and get me”. He’s moving back towards the hall, reaching for his phone when broad hands grab his shoulders. Three stumbling steps and he’s backed up against the wall by the door, Roger pinning him with his body. Pulsing heat from thigh to chest as Roger lets go of his shoulders and pushes a hand in his hair, other hand digging into Rafa’s obliques. 

“Liebchen” Roger had breathed in his ear, and ground his hips against him.

Two beats of stillness and then each is scrabbling frantically at the other. Rafa yanks the sweatpants down to Roger’s thighs and cups his cock, hard heat through damp cotton. Grunts as Roger bites down on his neck. His shorts are on the floor now, all bare skin and tan lines underneath and Roger groans. Skims across Rafa’s naked ass before grabbing it fiercely.

“ _Fuck_ ” Roger moans as Rafa closes his fingers around his cock. He pulls back, and Rafa sees what almost looks like anguish in Roger’s expression before they’re kissing. Bruising, open mouthed. Rafa sucks on Roger’s tongue, taped left hand scraping down his face as he cups his chin. Roger pushes closer, releases his grip on Rafa’s ass and reaches lower, lower, pressing in firm circles just behind Rafa’s balls. Rafa keens, groans wantonly into Roger’s mouth.  
He’s hard and aching, rubbing catlike against Roger’s belly as he writhes at his touch. They’re both breathing hard and Rafa has to break the kiss, tilts his head back to take a gasping breath.

There’s a faint metallic clang from outside and his eyes flare with shock. “The gates?”

“Quickly” Roger hisses, scrapes his teeth against Rafa’s neck. Moving closer still as Rafa pushes his hips forward, presses their cocks together. Jerks roughly as Roger crooks one, two fingers inside him and he comes with a choked cry of surprise. Roger’s other hand is on his and he gasps against Rafa’s collarbone, smearing Rafa’s come over them both as he strokes. Two, three and he bites down again, shudders. Trembles as his orgasm overtakes him.

The sweep of tyres on gravel. They stumble apart, both glancing at the window but the car has stopped short and they can’t see it. Roger looks down at his palms, then back at Rafa, laughter and panic in his eyes. Rafa crouches and pulls up Roger’s sweatpants for him, both shaking and clumsy as Roger shuffles over to the sink to wash his hands. 

“I’ll hold them off’ he whispers, smoothes his hair as the clamour grows outside. Their eyes lock as Roger pauses in the doorway, before they’re kissing again. One fierce press of the lips and then he’s gone, calling out a greeting as the key turns in the lock. Rafa has just enough time to straighten himself up and grab another coke from the fridge. He holds the can to his cheek, to soothe the burning. Deep breath in, deep breath out.

When Mirka and the twins bowl through the door, all rustling of boutique bags and effusive greetings, Rafa has recovered sufficiently to play along before summoning the car to pick him up. He complains about the humidity and hopes that they buy it, uses the soda can to shield any damp patches that would be harder to explain. He’s always wary around Mirka. Roger has never fully explained how much she knows about them, and her guileless fondness fuels his uneasy feeling that her suspicions lie elsewhere. It makes the guilt sharper, brighter, and he’s grateful when his phone buzzes to announce his driver’s arrival.  
As the car pulls away Roger waves from the doorway, kiss swollen lips curved into a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. 

He tells the car to stop at his house first, wait while he showers and changes. There’s a mark on his collarbone from Roger’s teeth, so he chooses a high necked top. The other guys rib him about his enthusiasm for golf attire, but he’s grateful for the design right now. It’s the worst round he’s posted in a while, but he finds that, for once, he doesn’t really care.

\---

The next day, breakfast is brief, with all focus now on the upcoming match. Nobody expects the young American Donaldson to bother him unduly, and the resultant 6-1 6-1 victory feels more like a training session. Schwartzman in the next round is potentially a much tougher proposition.  
In the event, he makes it through in straight sets and he feels good about it, as far as his body will ever allow. The knee is holding up, there has been no recurrence of the issue with his hand, and he can feel confidence starting to rebuild. There’s a momentum to this campaign, and when Novak falls unexpectedly to Kohlschreiber later that day, he feels the first tendrils of belief. He’s always tried to focus on his own game, on winning rather than hoping others lose, but the draw is opening up now and his path to the semi-final looks...favourable. 

He knows who would potentially await him there, and shuts down any member of his team that tries to discuss it. One match at a time. Nothing can trip you up more easily than complacency, and there are no pushovers at Masters 1000 level.

That confidence stays with him, and he efficiently despatches Krajinovic to secure a quarter final berth against Khachanov. Karen would be tough - Rafa remembers all too well their US Open encounter the previous fall, which had triggered his slide towards injury. He’s not concerned with those commentators that dismiss his opponent as being out of form, of struggling with the switch of racket sponsors. Players at their level always raise their game when the scalp across the net is big enough.

Roger beats Hurkacz in straight sets as he’s warming up. He tries not to watch but there are screens in the complex everywhere he turns. He feels the buzz of excitement that carries like a current through the corridors and waiting areas, the air of expectancy. That the match everyone wanted to see, as soon as the draw was announced was close. So close. 

It’s on his racket now.

He’s nervous, and in the heat of the afternoon Karen breaks him in the very first game. It’s early in the match though, no need for panic yet, and the crowd are with him. His next service game is a little more steady even though Karen still takes a couple of points from it, and he starts to settle. Breaking back for 3-3. Karen is tenacious, with a fearsome first serve percentage and an ace count ideal for hard courts. At 4-5 Rafa gets his chance, but four set points slip through his fingers. He grits his teeth and stays focused. There will be more chances.  
The set ticks towards the hour mark and he clinches it in the tie break. Halfway there. Halfway to something he has wanted since that terrible match in Shanghai, where he could barely compete. He wants another opportunity to face Roger when they’re both at their best. Roger is the only person that he measures himself against, and he can’t bear the thought of being found lacking.

It’s at the start of the second set that he feels it. He’s not sure at first, he’s been so accustomed to pain for so long that it takes a lot for something to register as unusual. First changeover at 2-1, and as he heads back to his bench he tries a couple of speculative squats. There’s no doubt then. The fiery tongue of his old foe licks at his right kneecap - the ache and pull that haunts his dreams and surely not now. _Please._

He takes a drink, towels himself down, then, knowing the chain reaction it will set off, he asks the umpire to call for the trainer.

The white-haired tour physio kneels by his chair. Rafa is matter of fact about it. He knows what it is, but doesn’t know how bad. He’s going to play on. The older man bows his head and nods to the umpire that the medical time out has now begun, his voice low as he rummages in his bag.

“You could do further damage if it’s a tear. Think very carefully about this.”

Rafa watches dispassionately as the familiar white tape is applied.

“I know my body. I wish to carry on. It gets worse, then I stop.”

The physio nods, sprays his knee. “You risk not being able to play the next match, it’s a short recovery time”

“If I don’t do this” Rafa wipes his face and arms one final time and reaches for his racket “then there is no next match anyway.” and with that he marches back onto the court, where Karen is waiting. He doesn’t meet the eyes of his team in the players box for some time, and when he finally looks he sees the resignation in their faces.

He wins the match. It takes another hour.

\---

“You should withdraw”

Rafa shakes his head, as best he can manage as he lies prone on the treatment table. It’s set up in a corner of the conservatory, and a couple of moths circle lazily around the lamps. He watches them as a distraction, but can’t help the grimace as Titin works around the knee. It looks normal, to the untrained eye. Nothing to betray its almost volcanic temperament. Titin presses again and he hisses through gritted teeth.

“We wait until tomorrow. See how it is then”

Charly’s expression softens into one of sympathy. “Look. I know you really want this rematch, I get that. You’re not the only one” he gestures at the laptop that he’s balancing on one knee. “I mean, the whole tennis world wants to see it. They’re all talking it up. ‘Fedal 39’” he snorts a laugh. “I’m betting they never watched your match today. You could barely move at the end of that second set”

He sees that Rafa’s hands are balled into fists. “We should tell them now, Rafa” he continues softly. “Pack all this up, get you home, and get ready for clay. You don’t need this.”

Rafa’s head turns slowly, slowly to face him. His eyes are shining and Charly doesn’t know whether its a trick of the light, or the pain. “I’ll be the best judge of what I need, Charly. And we will warm up tomorrow, and make a decision tomorrow.”

Charly sighs, closes the laptop with a snap and stands. “Fine. Whatever. But you are not playing Federer if you’re not fit. Not again. Even Roger wouldn’t want that.” he sees Rafa’s nostrils flare at this. “I’m going to bed”. 

Rafa watches his back as he leaves, then turns once more to look at the ceiling. The moths continue their spiral.

Less than twelve hours later he sits at the side of a practice court as, one by one, his team tells him what he already knows. He doesn’t believe in fairy tales, after all. As the official turns away, already radioing the press office to tell the corps to assemble, he taps out a text to Roger. Wants him to hear it from him first. Tells him he’s sorry, but he won’t be playing Miami either. He feels a tightness in his chest and swallows, then sends a second message.

\---

**PRESS CONFERENCE 16TH MARCH**  
**R. FEDERER/ R. Nadal (walkover)**

Q. You alluded to this out there with the anticipation that the crowd has, media, players. Now that it's going to be a different matchup, how do you go about adjusting your mindset?  
ROGER FEDERER: I mean, you mean for tomorrow?

Q. Yeah, for the final.  
ROGER FEDERER: Well, I mean, it's like you have played, but you didn't, so physically you feel better, you know. And you have, you know, over 24 hours to get ready. So there is nothing really extraordinary happening from now on forward after I have done the press.  
But it's just that the last, I'd say, two, three hours have been very different to a normal match day where I have warmed up, ready to go, and then all of a sudden getting a message from Rafa saying, I won't be able to play. I haven't told anybody yet. And you're like, Okay. Then you wonder, Do I have to do press? Is there anything else I need to do?  
I'm just excited to be in another finals here, to be quite honest. It's not the way I wanted to get there in a semifinals walkover, but, as we know, it's how it goes sometimes in tennis.  
Of course I'm also disappointed that that match with Rafa didn't happen, because we are both -- or I was ready to go. And I told him I hope it's nothing serious. So I hope he'll be back strong for the clay.

\---

By the time Roger falls to Thiem in the final, Rafa’s already thousands of miles away. As the aircraft heads into the inky European night, he switches off the action movie that he’d never really been watching. The attentive staff in first class are at his side as soon as he stands, and his seating area converted ready for sleep. In the dusk of the cabin he can see that the rest of his team called it a night long ago, and he’s glad of it. He has nothing to say to any of them right now, because he’s trying to keep his thoughts as carefully blank as he can. For he knows the path to recovery that lies ahead. He’s walked it many times already, too many. And if he lets himself think about it now…

“Sir?’ the smartly uniformed steward gestures at the freshly made bed, enquires whether he needs another pillow. He declines with a smile and asks to be woken for breakfast just before they land. As he sits, the last cabin light is dimmed and he’s alone in the semi dark. Alone with the drone of the engines and soft voices from the galley. Alone with a map on which a tiny plane moves slowly, slowly, over an expanse of blue and white.

He lies down, curls on his side, tries to draw his knees to his chest. As the pain shoots through him, he bunches the duvet in his fists, and cries.

_That's all there is_  
_Nothing more than you can feel now_  
_That's all there is_


End file.
